conditions. Let us be careful how far we take it to task for failing to
control the others. Perhaps we shall learn, in some other stage of
existence, that there is in this world a great deal of moral color
blindness, congenital, incurable; and that God has much more pity than we
suppose for poor things who have stumbled a good many times while they
were groping in darkness.

People who see clearly themselves are almost always intolerant of those
who do not. We often see this ludicrously exemplified, even in the trivial
matter of near-sightedness. We are almost always a little vexed, when we
point out a distant object to a friend, and hear him reply,--

"No, I do not see it at all. I am near-sighted."

"What! can't you see that far?" is the frequent retort, and in the pity is
a dash of impatience.

There is a great deal of intolerance in the world, which is closely akin
to this; and not a whit more reasonable or righteous, though it makes
great pretensions to being both. Mercy Philbrick was full of such
intolerance, on this one point of honesty. She was intolerant not only to
others, she was intolerant to herself. She had seasons of fierce and
hopeless debating with herself, on the most trivial matters, or what would
seem so to nine hundred and ninety-nine persons out of a thousand. During
such seasons as these, her treatment of her friends and acquaintances had
odd alternations of frank friendliness and reticent coolness. A sudden
misgiving whether she might not be appearing to like her friend more than
she really did would seize her at most inopportune moments, and make her
absent-minded and irresponsive. She would leave sentences abruptly
unfinished,--invitations, perhaps, or the acceptances of invitations, the